White Knight
by BlueRiverSteel
Summary: White Knight: a beleaguered champion who fights heroically for a cause, often exemplifying the characteristics of sacrifice, honor, and chivalry. Tag to 10x21, "Dark Dynasty."


**White Knight**

* * *

I have a plan. It's a terrible plan, as they often are in situations this… _desperate_ …but it's a plan.

Sam wouldn't like it, but I don't plan to tell him. He, after all, didn't feel the need to share his stupid little scheme for saving me by screwing around with that damned book. It's clear to me now that neither he nor Castiel can be trusted to do what needs doing, to let me go—well, send me off, as it were—when things go bad.

And it's no longer a matter of _if_ , so much as _when_ , and I know that. The Mark is growing stronger by the day, finding new ways to coerce me into giving in. It throws petulant little tantrums when I resist; tantrums that leave me coughing up blood, hugging the porcelain throne like there's no tomorrow, sweating and gray and shaking my way through the wee hours of the morning. At first, that was the extent of it—and god knows I can handle some physical discomfort—but lately, it's been getting worse.

Muscle spasms, stomach cramps—I swear I haven't eaten properly in weeks—nightmares so vicious I legitimately wake _screaming_ , usually to find my not-so-baby brother standing cautiously in the doorway, waiting until it's safe to approach. And worse: the lack of sleep and nutrition and the constant stress has dulled my edge in a fight, which in my line of work, can get a person killed. The Mark seems to delight in this particular development, even exacerbate it—that fight in the alley with the Stynes? There was a day, not so long ago, I'd have won that much more quickly, and without nearly getting myself strangled in the process.

 _If you would stop resisting me, you'd be even more powerful than that._

Another thing: the Mark has begun to take on a voice inside my head, which is just all sorts of freaking creepy. Worse, it sounds…well, it sounds exactly like my _own_ voice, except somehow crueler, more arrogant, devoid of anything gentle or pure.

It's the voice I had as a demon.

I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed—Sam still, after all these years, holds that distinction—but I'm not exactly stupid, either. I can see where this is headed, and I refuse to go there again. Knowing what I know now, it's also idiotic to place my hopes on Cas or Sam taking care of the problem when it inevitably rears its black-eyed, evil-grinning head.

No, I need to enlist help from another corner for this one.

As angry as I am at Sam right now—and believe you me, I am absolutely _pissed_ —I can't honestly say I'm surprised by any of it.

 _Charlie loves you, Dean. We all love you!_

I ignore the clench in my chest as Charlie comes to mind—I can't do that right now, I can't think about her. That's the crux of the problem there; they love me. Sam, Cas, Ch—

That love will get them all killed if I don't take steps to prevent it.

Right. Freaking. _Now_.

The ingredients are all there, in the dungeon; it's an easy ritual, and I find myself hoping beyond hope that this will work. I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner; if there's anyone who cares more about the natural order than they do me, who'll go through with this because He doesn't _love_ me, who will be as kind as possible about it, well…it's Him.

I want to tell Sam; I can't leave him like this, with us broken the way we are, can't leave him thinking this is some sort of…punishment, or that it's his fault, or that I'm going to die angry at him. Because none of that is true—forgiving Sam is easy as breathing, even though Ch—

Even though the consequences this time have been particularly severe.

I wish I could be here to help him through this; he feels guilty as hell, I know he does; and this, what I'm about to do, will only make it worse. But of the two suckiest choices in the world I have to make right now, this is the slightly-less-sucky one.

I don't want to just up and leave; I did that to him not a year ago, and it was cruel then. I didn't care at the time. I do now.

If it were a simple matter of Sam trying to stop me, I'd wake him anyway and tell him goodbye properly. But it's not that; he won't _try_ to stop me, he _will_ stop me. He'll find a way, and I really can't risk what the Mark would do if I ended up in a fistfight with my brother right now. I won't take chances with his life, not now, not ever.

 _Forgive me, Sammy._

Before I go through with this, I do owe him _something_. Some sort of explanation, or he'll just go dark side himself trying to get me back. So I snatch the legal pad off the shelf in the dungeon and scrawl a quick note.

Sam is sleeping fitfully when I press against the slightly-ajar door of his room. His face is pale, highlighting the bruised circles under his puffy red eyes. God, the kid's cheeks are still wet when I step close enough to place the note under his giant limp hand. My own chest constricts as I look down at him—I swear I don't see the man as he is now, not like other people do. Instead, I see skinned knees and boxed macaroni and cheese and prank wars and that _ridiculous_ dimpled smile and that stupid puppy dog look that everyone just melts into—including me.

My _brother_.

Swallowing the lump in my throat that feels dangerously like a sob, I lightly squeeze his hand before I let go.

"Bye, bitch."

The summoning is quick, and I blink to clear the flash of light from my eyes. He stands there, infinitely old, unconcerned, black suit and thin cane, with that same expression of nonchalance I've become accustomed to seeing on His face. He is danger and safety all at once, the only Being in the universe old enough, strong enough, _powerful_ enough to challenge what I'm about to become. He nods, ever the gentleman.

"Dean. I wondered when you would call."

I take a deep breath—He demands respect, and He gets it, even from me.

"Death. I need your help."

* * *

 _Sammy,_

 _This is not your fault. I know you well enough to know you'll try to blame yourself, so listen to me: this is not your fault. This entire thing—from Gadreel to the Mark—is on me, and we both knew there was a possibility it'd end this way._

 _As for recent events; I forgive you, Sam. Forgive yourself and move on. Take care of Cas, and Jody, and Claire…let yourself be happy, will you? Do something that makes you happy._

 _I'm going to summon Death and ask him to take care of what I'm about to become. It wasn't really fair to ask you or Cas to do it anyway. Then I'm going to let the Mark take me, and I'm going to go decimate the entirety of the Styne Dynasty. My last hoorah, as it were. They won't be able to kill me, and I'll be far too strong to fail. You won't have to worry about them ever again, Sammy._

 _After you're safe, I'm going to die proper; Death will see to that. Don't come after me._

 _Don't._

 _Live instead. I'm asking you this time as your big brother, not as a Knight of Hell:_

 _Sammy, let me go._

 _And when you someday—far in the future—die old in your bed, surrounded by people you love, I'll be waiting for you. This ain't so much 'goodbye' as it is 'see you later.'_

 _I love you, too, by the way._

 _Dean_

* * *

 **A/N:** I wasn't going to tag this episode, I swear I wasn't. But I woke up with this rattling around in my head, and it wouldn't shut up, so...

Another tag to this episode, almost a precursor to this one, is titled "Ferrying the Dead" by **CornishGirl**. Go check it out! It's fantastically heartwrenching.

This is for Candy, Nova, and J.


End file.
